Babe and I are spending a month alone in a cabin in a cozy little town nestled in the North Carolina Mountains. With one General Store, one cafe and a one-woman Post Mistress, it is perfect for a second honeymoon.

The town is set miles away from anything resembling a road to anywhere. We get lost three times before Babe grudgingly asks directions from a toothless man walking down the road. The fellow's tight lips barely move when he speaks, while his beady eyes glare with unconcealed suspicion.

When we arrive at our cabin late in the day, we high-five ourselves for having chosen a remote spot that the Grandkids from Hell couldn't find with a NASA tracking system. Later, we drive down to the Green Apple Cafe.

A middle-aged dude with deep wrinkles and a gray ponytail is entertaining. His name is Jesse and he tells local stories while strumming on a homemade Mountain Dulcimer. After a bit, Delores, the tired owner, server, cook and bottle washer, appears. She is yawning.

"Tonight's special is mesquite broiled salmon, fresh asparagus, sliced local tomatoes and real mashed potatoes. $5.95."

Did she say $5.95? We gawk. When was it we hopped on a time machine? One look at the wine list and we were positive we were in a time warp. The slightly fruity bouquet of Ripple tastes like champagne.

I look into Babe's big brown eyes. "Isn't this romantic? No traffic, no over-priced meals. It's turning me on, Babe."

The next morning, he drops me off at the General Store and goes looking for a golf course.

Sawdust covers the store floor and I spend some time dumping it out of my sandals. I see items only my grandmother would recognize and she went to her reward forty years ago. Sour Gum Molasses, dusty bottles of black stove polish, Black Drought Laxatives. Gently squeezing a red, robust Better Boy tomato, thoughts of a BLT make me swoon.

I am lost in the fantasy when Benny, the owner of the store introduces himself. For the next half hour he tells me more than I want to know about his spastic colon and erratic prostate. I blush with every mention of his bodily fluids.

Next he talks about his sister. "Agnes is ninety-three," declares Benny. "Got mad as a wet hen when the doctor tole her not to go blackberry picking for her home-made jelly."

Personally, I think Agnes ought to buy Smuckers and spend her remaining days watching Driving Miss Daisy on HBO.

"Agnes has allergies," he says. "Cain't get up the hill without sneezing. Doc says she's liable to sneeze herself into a coronary."

Benny, the only butcher within miles, provides fresh meat, fish and produce to the Green Apple Café next door. Deloris, of the amazing $5.95 salmon and asparagus, is his cousin. A common door between the buildings remains open so that when somebody orders a hamburger, Delores yells, "Grind me off a pound, Benny!"

When Babe returns, I tell him about this tiny community. I know everybody's name and ailment like they are my own relatives. I sigh as we drive up the hill to the cozy cabin, ours for twenty-nine more days.

As we round the bend, my mouth drops open. "Babe. Is that ... Naaah, it can't be. Ohmygawd, it is! How did they find us?"

The Grandkids from Hell are waiting to pounce. Babe is trembling. I want Babe to hightail it back down the hill, but my grinning son interrupts any idea of a retreat. He's standing knee-deep amid the chaos looking like a basset hound caught in quicksand. "Surprise, Mom!"

"I'm starving, Mammy!" #2 GFH sidles up and gives me a cursory hug. "Got anything good to eat in those bags."

His big brother, #1GFH, shoves him and nags, "You inhaled two hamburgers and a milk shake. No way you're still hungry."

#2 fixes him with a look. "Shut up," to which #1 tells him to shut up which launches the shut up yourself contest that is still going on to this day.

#3GFH crawls up the side of my car like a tree frog. Please God tell me how to get back on that Fifties time machine.

"Hey Mammy," #3 hugs me tight with sticky chocolate fingers and hangs on. The rest of his forty pounds dangles and thumps on the side of my car. "Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"

Babe's tears are free-falling down his face.

Something tells me the honeymoon is over.

Author's note:

Since this writing, Both Benny and his sister have Agnes died. She is busy picking blackberries in that big patch in the sky, while he grinds off pound after pound of hamburger meat in the largest General Store he ever saw.